


Worn

by stripyjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Parentlock, Teenlock, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjumpers/pseuds/stripyjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of John-centric fics with lots of hurt/comfort, angst, and fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hurt Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hurts his shoulder while chasing Sherlock through an alleyway.  
> tw: nightmares, anxiety
> 
> Please read: Because every chapter is completely unrelated to the previous one, I'll be putting the trigger warnings for each story in the chapter summary so please be sure to read those beforehand. 
> 
> These fics have not been beta'd or Britpicked, so all mistakes are mine, and comments or suggestions are always welcome! ^^

In the back of his mind, John knew that something was about to go horribly wrong. Because, honestly, what were the chances of something _not_ going wrong whilst chasing a suspect through an incredibly dark alleyway on a frigid winter night with patches of ice littering the pavement.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, his breath coming out like a puff of smoke in front of him as he ran. The mad bastard was already miles ahead of him, and John was not about to let his friend try to tackle some hell-bent criminal by himself.

“Sherlock!” he tried again, his voice already losing steam. “Sher—“ John gasped sharply as his foot slipped on a sheet of ice, sending him hurtling forward and landing directly on his left shoulder.

John cried out in pain, and hoped like hell that Sherlock would stop running long enough to realize what had happened.

His shoulder felt like it had burst into flames, the stinging heat sending searing pain down his entire arm and upper back. He was not going to be able to get up any time soon, he knew, but the freezing cold gravel wasn’t exactly an ideal resting spot.

Slowly and carefully, John turned himself to lie down on his back and fished his phone out of his pocket with his right hand. He pressed Sherlock’s name and prayed that he would pick up, thinking that Lestrade would be his next best option if Sherlock failed to answer.

“C’mon, pick up, pick up,” John murmured, his face tightly pinched in pain.

“John!” Sherlock shouted in greeting. “Where are you? I’ve got Andrews. He may or may not be conscious. Lestrade’s on his way.”

“Sh…Sherlock,” John breathed, the pain making it difficult for him to speak above a whisper.

“You’re hurt. What happened? Where are you?” Sherlock asked quickly.

“Mm…fell,” he panted.

“Okay, stay where you are. I don’t think Andrews is going anywhere and Lestrade will be here any minute. I’m on my way.”

Luckily, John didn't have to spend more than a few minutes waiting before he heard Sherlock's footsteps approaching.

Sherlock found him and immediately asked if he needed to go to hospital, but John insisted that he’d be fine, he just needed a hot bath and some strong painkillers. This had happened before, and he knew the pain would dissipate to a dull ache within an hour.

* * *

After a very tricky maneuver into a cab and a very long trip up the steps to the flat, John was back in 221b, slumped in his armchair with his eyes closed and not planning on moving for at least another century.

The pain had subsided enough for him to be able to take off his jacket, albeit slowly, and to talk without every other word being an expletive, though Sherlock did have to pull off his shoes for him which had been a tiny bit humiliating.

Now, with the fire going and painkillers eagerly taken, all John could really do was wait.

“Tea?” Sherlock asked, snapping John out of his fuzzy thoughts.

“Hm?” he said lamely, staring up at his flatmate.

“Tea, John. You’re still cold, the beverage is warm; hardly a difficult concept.”

“Oh, er, yes. Yeah, thank you,” he said.

Sherlock hummed in response and went to the kitchen to flick the kettle on.

As soon as John closed his eyes and attempted to relax, Sherlock was back and tugging at the afghan that was tucked behind him, making him sit forward and grumble in frustration.

“And this, too.” Sherlock said as explanation as he tossed the blanket over John’s legs. “To keep you warm, I mean.”

“Sherlock, really, I’m fine,” John insisted, trying desperately to not sound pained as he spoke. 

“You slipped on ice and landed directly on your previously injured shoulder and have spent the last twenty-five minutes in varying amounts of pain and will likely spend the next two days at least with a residual ache, not to mention the possibility of your nightmares being triggered, and you insist on using the word ‘ _fine_ ’ to describe your current state. I’m beginning to doubt that you know the dictionary definition of the word.”

John grit his teeth and held onto the arm of his chair with a death grip, not looking Sherlock in the eye.

“Oh, I’ve angered you,” Sherlock stated. “Not good?”

John looked up at Sherlock, ready to retort, but stopped when he saw the genuine look of concern on his face. He took a deep breath and relaxed his muscles.

“No, Sherlock, it’s…thank you. I’ll be very sore and grumpy for a while but I should be better after a good rest, maybe a hot bath, when I can make the trek to the loo without cringing. You don’t have to worry, okay?”

Sherlock pouted. “I’m not worried," he mumbled.

John chuckled softly. “Well, thank you for your non-concern, then.”

“And you say _I’m_ stubborn about taking care of myself,” Sherlock muttered as he headed back to the kitchen to finish making John’s tea.

“You _are_. And don’t think ‘cause I’m indisposed that I can’t nag you to eat dinner. I can order Chinese right from my chair, y’know.”

“And I can choose not to eat it. You can’t force feed me in your current condition," he teased.

John laughed and winced as his shoulder protested with another cry of pain.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

For John, the worst part of having nightmares wasn’t the nightmare itself, it was the moments that followed after waking up from one. The sheer panic that filled his chest, the heavy breathing that he felt he couldn’t control, the lingering feeling of paranoia, it was all too much.

John was sat up in his bed, hand clutching his heaving chest as he tried to calm his breathing. It was just a dream, he tried to tell himself. Or maybe he was _still_ dreaming, maybe the walls would suddenly start melting or the room would start spinning, or he’d go downstairs and find the whole flat flooded with water, or—

No, he had to stop this. It was just a dream. He was fine now.

John pinched himself just to make sure, a bit too hard, maybe, but effective. Just as he’d predicted earlier, the pain in his shoulder was now reduced to a mild ache. He’d have some trouble lifting his left arm fully for a few days, but other than that, he knew he'd be okay.

He was just starting to think about ways he could get himself back to sleep when he heard Sherlock’s footfalls on the stairs. Great, just what John needed, Sherlock seeing him with his hair soaked with sweat and probably looking like a frightened kitten.

Sherlock knocked on the door.

“John?”

“Go ‘way, Sherlock,” John grumbled, burying his face in his pillow.

“I heard your bed squeaking, which could have meant that you were either masturbating or having a nightmare, but given the circumstances, I—“

“Sherlock, leave me alone!”

“No, I’m coming in. You’re clearly not okay.”

“The door’s locked!”

“That’s hilarious, John,” Sherlock deadpanned before opening the door.

He stepped in and approached the bed slowly; probably a good move on his part.

“Sherlock, I said to leave off. Is picking a lock the only thing you know how to do tonight?” John snapped, his voice still wavering.

“I know that you’ve had a night that was…not good, and normally I leave you alone to bottle up your emotions—“

“Oi!”

“—but tonight I thought you might need some, er, support. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah, you can get out of my bedroom—“

“John,” Sherlock pleaded. John swallowed what he was about to say and looked at Sherlock’s half-silhouetted face, seeing that same expression of concern that he saw earlier. Sherlock really did care, John knew that, even if he did show his care by letting himself into John’s bedroom at three in the morning.

“You can get out of my bedroom,” John repeated, calmer, “and…and possibly bring up some paracetamol?”

Sherlock looked momentarily surprised before he turned and ran down the stairs.

A few minutes later, Sherlock returned with not only the medicine, but a damp flannel, a glass of water and a book.

John eagerly took the pills and wiped off his forehead with the cloth, thankful for the cool, damp material to sooth his racing mind.

“Thank you,” John said. He took a deep breath and tucked himself back under the covers. “What’s the book for?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he went and pulled John’s desk chair next to the bed and sat down.

“I’m going to read to you, obviously,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because you always fail to get back to sleep after a nightmare and I’ve been told that my voice can be quite relaxing.”

“Who told you that?”

“Me. Now, chapter one…”


	2. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (teen!lock and rugby!John) Sherlock is looking forward to he and John having the whole night to themselves, but when he gets to John's house, things don't go exactly as planned.

Sherlock had the evening all planned out.

It was perfect; John’s parents were out for the night and likely not going to be home until at least midnight, and his sister was staying over her girlfriend’s, which meant that he and John had the house all to themselves.

Sherlock could have sworn that he and John got interrupted almost every single time things would start heating up between them. They would be snogging on the sofa and John would slide his palm underneath Sherlock’s shirt, making his breath hitch in anticipation, and Harry would burst in the door not a second later.

And if they weren’t being interrupted, they were busy. John had rugby, a job, and mountains of homework, Sherlock had rigorous dance and violin lessons on top of schoolwork, and it all made for barely enough to time for a peck on the lips before one of them was out the door.

But not tonight. Tonight was going to be all about the two of them. No plans, no nosy sisters or nagging parents, just Sherlock, John, and a good film to watch in between all the snogging.

Sherlock smiled at the thought as he hopped up the steps to John’s front porch and tapped on the door. He was biting his lip trying to contain his excitement.

John didn’t come to greet him, however.

Sherlock frowned slightly and knocked a bit louder in case John was entranced in a video game or had the telly on too loud.

This time, it sounded like John was trying to shout something at him and failing miserably. Then Sherlock’s phone buzzed with a text.

_Its open_

That’s odd, Sherlock thought, John would always come and unlock the door for him. Hesitating a bit, Sherlock pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The small sitting room was dimly lit with the television on low volume, and what Sherlock saw when he looked to his left was not at all what he’d been expecting.

John was sprawled out on the sofa, practically sinking into the cushions, his arms and legs lying limp and his face scrunched up against a pillow. He looked as if he hadn’t moved from that exact position in hours, and he didn’t even turn his head to look at Sherlock.

“John?” Sherlock asked quietly, closing the door behind him.

John didn’t stir aside from a slight grimace.

Sherlock slid off his shoes and padded over to the sofa. He knelt down next to John so he could see him better.

“John?” he tried again.

“Mm…m’sorry,” John mumbled.

“What for?”

John shifted slightly in an effort to get more comfortable but seemed pained to move.

“I’m so tired, Sherlock. I know tonight was…we were gonna, y’know,” John mumbled, looking guiltily at the floor. “But I can’t. I’m so bloody knackered.”

“Rugby?” Sherlock asked, his previous excitement quickly deflating.

“Yeah. Coach ran us dry. Especially me, ‘cause I went and lost us the game last ti—“

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes it was. And he’s pissed. He tired us out on purpose, I swear. And I didn’t even start my homework yet, and it’s due tomorrow, and now you’re here and you looked so _excited_ and I—“

“John.” Sherlock stopped him, sensing that John was well on his way to working himself up. “It’s all right. You’re exhausted. We’ll just watch a film and I’ll make you some tea.”

“No, it’s not all right, Sherlock.”

“It’s fine, John, just rest."

“I don’t want to,” he protested, his arm reaching out to grab weakly onto Sherlock’s sleeve. “We never get any time together, and now that we finally do, I can barely keep my eyes open. We’ve been looking forward to this all week. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock shook his head and took a deep breath. He _had_ been looking forward to their night together, and he knew that their schedules likely wouldn’t free up again anytime soon, but it wasn’t John’s fault.

“Well stop being sorry. We can still spend all night together. Even if you’re asleep, I’ll be here. Now, have you eaten?”

“That’s my line,” John teased.  “Yeah, I had something earlier.”

“Good, but I’m still making you tea because it always relaxes you, and I’ll get the duvet from your room; you like that one best.”

“You don’t have to do all that.” John sighed.

“Too late.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John said, exasperated, but Sherlock was already on his way to the kitchen. 

John looked half asleep again when Sherlock came back to the sitting room, and let out a small noise of surprised when the blanket was settled over him.

“Hm?” John grunted, looking at the duvet over him like he’d never seen it before.

“Just relax, John; you’re tired.”

John frowned. “Won’t you be bored?”

“I’m with you, how could I be bored?” Sherlock said. That seemed to make John smile.

Sherlock moved the tea closer to John and got up to look through the selection of DVD’s. Once he found the bee documentary that he kept at John’s house just in case, he popped it in and turned all the lights off.

“You’re going to have to move your feet,” Sherlock said, patting John’s foot encouragingly.

“Mm. Can’t.”

“Well I can’t sit on your feet.”

“Just move ‘em, m’not gonna break.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed. John could be so stubborn when he wanted to be.

He carefully lifted John’s feet and plopped himself onto the sofa, letting them rest in his lap.

“Sorry,” John murmured. “Guess I’m getting grumpy now.”

“And that’s different than normal how?”

John kicked Sherlock’s thigh with his foot the best he could. “Oi, watch it, I’m a big tough rugby player, remember?” He joked, his words slurring together from sleepiness. 

Sherlock chuckled and started rubbing John’s ankle absently, hoping it would help soothe him.

John reached an arm out and sluggishly grabbed his mug, taking a few long, slow sips before putting it back.

“Thank you,” he said, sighing happily. 

“Not a problem, John. Just sleep; I need you healthy if you’re going to help me with that experiment like you promised.”

“Very funny.”

Sherlock continued to rub John’s ankle and make commentary about bees until he heard John start his usual soft snoring noises. The evening might not have gone exactly as he'd intended, but he didn't mind, because just being with John was always enough.


	3. Panic Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg are on their way back home and John tries to hide an impending panic attack. This is Johnstrade because there's a special place in my heart for those two <3  
> tw: panic attacks

John and Greg were on their way back from the latest wild goose chase that Sherlock had sent them on, ending up with nothing, as they'd feared. Sometimes John thought that Sherlock sent them on these little missions just to get he and Lestrade out of the way for a while so he could do something that Lestrade would not approve of. 

It was late, and they were on a very long stretch of road somewhere in the country, the only sources of light being the moon and their high-beam headlights. And that’s when it started; a roll of thunder in the distance, a muffled rumbling that sent shivers down John’s spine.

John tried to quell the negative thoughts that began to rumble like his own personal thunderstorm in his head, but another boom of thunder, louder that time, went off and John knew that he was not going to escape the panic that was swelling in his chest.

He hadn’t always had this problem; it was only after the army, after grainy memories of bombs going off in the distance had etched themselves into his head did he have this reaction.

He looked over at Greg driving and knew that he couldn’t tell him. What good would that do? He and Greg had only just started dating and John was not ready for the man to see the ugliest parts of him just yet.

He’d have to stop this panic before it started, then, had to suck it up and get over it like his father had always told him to do. Maybe if he could do that for once, just deal with it, and-

Wait, why was Greg pulling over?

 “Greg, what are you doing?” John asked. His voice was shakier than he would’ve liked but he was not about to just sit while the thunder got louder. What the hell was Greg thinking?

“Just breathe, John,” Greg said quietly, stopping the car on the side of the road.

“What?” John snapped. More thunder rolled outside his window.

“Just breathe, it’ll be all right,” the man repeated, looking at him with those warm, caring eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John crossed his arms and looked straight ahead, attempting to ignore the fact that his legs had started shaking.

“John, I know the start of a panic attack when I see it. My ex-wife used to have them. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed, I just…” He sighed, realizing now that the whole time he’d been thinking up ways to hide his panicking, he'd been breathing much too fast and definitely loud enough for Greg to hear.

“C’mon, let’s move to the back,” Greg suggested, turning on the light in the car and taking off his seat belt.

“What? Why?”

“There’s more room, so you won’t feel as cramped. I know feeling trapped can be part of the problem, right?”

“I…okay,” John agreed. He supposed he wasn’t getting out of this one.

They maneuvered themselves into the backseat and John’s shaking only got worse. He knew that even if the thunder stopped completely, the panic attack was already in full swing and there wasn’t really any stopping it now.

“I’ve got a blanket back here, and I know you’re not in shock but it’s usually comforting anyway, and—“

“Greg,” John interrupted, the nervousness in his chest getting exponentially worse. How could he have ever thought that he could hide this?

“I know, John, I know. Deep breaths, okay?” Greg had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and had a hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles up and down.

“I can’t,” John argued. He could no longer take a full breath without his insides feeling like they were quivering.

“Try for me,” Greg cooed, keeping his voice low and soft.

“I _can’t_ , Greg. I can’t breathe.”

“I know it feels that way, but you can, I promise you. Just focus on my voice, all right?”

“A-all right.” John tried to take a deep breath, not fully succeeding, but feeling better that he at least tried.

“Panic attacks usually last five to twenty minutes, and it’s gonna get worse before it gets better, but it _will_ get better, okay? Just keep focusing on my voice and your breathing.”

“I just- I feel, god, I can’t- Greg, I can’t—“ John stuttered. God, he couldn’t even form full sentences anymore, how on earth was he ever going to come out of this? His hands were shaking now, knees wobbling; he felt so pathetic.

“I know,” Greg repeated, “You feel restless, out of control, yeah?”

John nodded, not even attempting to speak anymore.

“Like you’ll never ever calm down?”

He nodded again.

“Sounds a bit silly though, eh?” Greg said with a smile. Was he trying to make him laugh?

Maybe it _was_ silly. Of course he would calm down eventually, he always did, right?

“Did I ever tell you about the time when I was five and a golden retriever stole my sandwich?” Greg asked, throwing John completely off guard. He tried to take another deep breath and focus on what Greg was saying.

“We were at a friend’s party,” he went on, “and this dog must’ve been twice my size, but I chased it all around the yard, shouting and yelling and all the people there just watched!”

John couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound coming out more like a garbled sob, but a laugh felt like just what he needed.

“Shh, s’okay. Breathe, John. I’m right here, you’re safe,” Greg reminded him in a gentler tone. He nodded and noticed that his legs weren’t shaking nearly as much now.

“And you wanna know the real kicker about that story?”

“What?” John asked.

“When the dog finally stopped, I tried to _arrest_ it. Can you imagine a five year old holding up a fake police badge and trying to tell a dog he’d just committed theft?”

John laughed, wholly and fully that time, looking at him lovingly.

“I guess you can tell I’ve always had a passion for the job,” Greg said, clearly laughing at his past self.

After a few moments filled with slower and deeper breaths, John rested his head on Greg’s shoulder and inhaled his comforting scent. He didn’t hear any more thunder outside, thankfully.

“How are you feeling?” Greg asked.

John cleared his throat.

“A bit better, yeah.”

“Calmer?”

“Mmh,” John murmured, nuzzling into Greg’s neck.

“Good. We’ll stay back here for a little longer, though. I know it can take a while to feel normal again, so we’ll take our time.”

“Thanks, Greg," he whispered.

“No worries. Take all the time you need. I know I’m gonna need time to think up something new to yell at Sherlock.”

“Hah, yeah. I mean it, though, Greg. I don’t think anyone’s helped me through one like that before.”

“Anytime, John. M’glad you’re okay. But if you ever need help again, I’m just a call or text away, yeah?”

“Thank you.”

John leaned up and kissed him on the jaw. He wrapped the blanket around Greg’s shoulders as well and snuggled in closer, thankful for the time to get his breath back.  

“Did you _really_ try to arrest a dog?” he asked.

“You’re not gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Comments and suggestions are always welcome :)


	4. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a really short snippet of kid!John being sick and Sherlock being bummed out that his friend can’t play.

According to John’s mum, John needed ‘bed rest.’ Sherlock had been fine with this at first, assuming that bed rest simply meant that John would lie in his bed while they talked and played board games instead of being in the sitting room or going outside. He was _not_ told that apparently it meant John _sleeping_ for hours and hours.

All day long, John had been asleep, and Sherlock had been bored, bored, bored. Didn’t John know how Sherlock hated to be bored? 

John’s mum had said that John needed the sleep so he could feel better again, but Sherlock knew loads more ways to make John feel better than this silly bed rest thing.

It wasn’t fair, Sherlock thought, crossing his little arms on John’s mattress and plopping his head down with a huff. It’d been almost a week since he and John played together, because every time he’d walked over and knocked on John’s door, he was told that John was still sick. And even worse, John had been in hospital the day before because of his fever, so now that he was home, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be able to play for even longer.

“Jo-ohn,” Sherlock whined, pawing at the duvet. “Wake up,” he pleaded. John stayed snoozing, completely oblivious to his friend’s presence.

“John,” Sherlock tried again, poking his shoulder lightly. “John, I wanna play pirates,” he told him. “Stop being sick so we can play,” he said grumpily. Maybe if he kept talking to John, eventually he would wake up.

“I put an eye patch on Redbeard yesterday,” Sherlock said. “He didn’t like it.”

John twitched a little in his sleep, his face scrunching up minutely. Maybe talking to him really would work.

“Then I asked Mycroft to wear it but he said he was ‘busy.’ That’s his favourite word.” Sherlock pouted. “You’re not allowed to be busy. I’ll ask Mycroft to pass a law; he wants to be in the government and all. Then it’ll be against the law for you to be busy or get sick and it won’t happen again and we can play pirates forever,” he said cheerily.

Then, John began to stir even more; maybe he was finally waking up. Sherlock smiled, but John began to cough, short little hiccups that made him groan quietly in his sleep.

“John?”

John made a noise that sounded like he was in pain before going into a louder coughing fit, grimacing even more.

“Do you need water? Your mum said to give you water when you wake up. John?”

His friend didn’t respond, instead he started tossing and turning while harsh coughs continued to wrack his small frame. Sherlock was beginning to get worried when suddenly he heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs.

John’s mum rushed in and then it was a flurry of activity that sent Sherlock jumping out of his chair to stand by the door.

He watched as John’s mum made John sit up and patted his back until the coughing stopped. Then she helped him drink water, and then she stuck that horrible thermometer in John’s mouth. Sherlock knew John hated that.

“Hm. Getting better,” she mumbled to herself, sounding relieved. She made sure Sherlock was okay and told him to let John keep resting before leaving the room.

Sherlock shuffled back over to resume his post by John’s bed and sighed sadly. He supposed he would just have to wait, then. Mycroft would approve of that; what was that word he always used? Patience? It sounded boring, but if John needed rest then Sherlock would let him rest.  

“I bet if you were a doctor, you could do all that stuff yourself and then you’d get better even faster,” he whispered. He still wanted to talk to John, even if the boy couldn’t respond. He’d just talk quieter so he wouldn’t wake him.

“So you’ll be a doctor, and I’ll be a detective, and Mycroft will still be annoying,” he chuckled.

“I got a new book about bees that I was gonna show you, but since I can’t I’ll just tell you some stuff I learned,” he said.

And so Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon whispering various facts about bees to John and thinking up all sorts of things they could do on their next pirate adventure. And after a while of talking, Sherlock noticed with surprise that he wasn’t bored at all, not even a little.


	5. Neglect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been weeks since John and Sherlock have been intimate with each other and John is beginning to feel like perhaps he's no longer as needed as he used to be.
> 
> Sorry if this is a bit OOC, I started writing this a while ago and have been adding to it on and off, so I'm not sure how well it will read.

It was early morning, the sun just coming up to shine through the windows of Sherlock’s bedroom. He and John were tucked under the covers, John curled up as close to Sherlock as he could be without actually touching him.

John had been awake for a few minutes, staring at the back of Sherlock’s neck and trying to breathe him in, trying to remember what it was like when he could reach out and touch him whenever he pleased.

It had been over a month since they’d last been intimate with each other, which at first was due to a seemingly never ending stream of casework and experiments, but the busier Sherlock had gotten, the less interested he seemed in any carnal part of their relationship. It was a distraction, he’d say, which over time had caused to John to be more and more cautious about touching him.

Their latest case, though, had finally ended the night before, and John was determined to get things back to the way they were. He took a deep breath and slowly slipped his hand around Sherlock’s waist, stopping to rub small circles on his navel.

“Mm, Sherlock?” he asked sleepily.

“Hm?” the man grunted.

John began to run his fingers up Sherlock’s shirt, teasing at his sides.

“Do you think, maybe we could…y’know.” He pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s neck.

“Can’t. Busy.” Sherlock held up his mobile in explanation.

“Busy?”

“I’ve got a case.”

“You just finished one last night,” John said in disbelief.

“Lestrade texted me.”

“What, at three in the morning?” he snapped.

“Two, actually. Is that so hard to believe?”

John sighed and removed his hand from under Sherlock’s shirt. Well, there goes that idea.

“No, no it isn't. Just don't go chasing after any armed criminals today, okay?” he asked, turning around to face the other side of the bed.

“You're not coming?” Sherlock sounded surprised.

“No, Sherlock. It's my day off; I just want to have a lie-in.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

John felt Sherlock untangle himself from the duvet and get up to start his morning routine.

When he heard him clamber down the steps and close the front door, he turned over to the empty but still warm space next to him.

He reached out and fisted his hand in the blanket, holding it like he wished he could be holding Sherlock.

* * *

“How was the case?” John asked when Sherlock bounded back into the flat later that evening.

“Boring. Barely a five. I can't believe Lestrade convinced me to help him with this one.”

“Well, you know Lestrade. Filthy tease, that man.”

“He is, isn't he?” Sherlock shucked off his coat and scarf and plopped himself down into his chair.

“What d'you reckon for dinner? Chinese?”

“Not hungry.”

“I’ll get you your usual, then.” John put down his newspaper and picked up his mobile. He knew by now that if he simply put food next to Sherlock, eventually he would eat it, whether he noticed he was doing it or not.

* * *

After John ate his dinner and Sherlock had finished picking at his, they were sat together on the sofa, Sherlock wrapped up in a book while John leaned on his shoulder and watched the telly.

John was careful not to rest his head too heavily on him, though, because it still felt as if there was some sort of tension between them, a fragile barrier that would break with one wrong move.

He glanced at Sherlock for what must’ve been the fiftieth time, eyeing his long, pale neck exposed right in front of him. And then he just couldn’t help himself anymore; he leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his smooth skin.

Sherlock gasped and jumped up in surprise when John’s lips made contact, accidentally pushing John away. “Oh! Sorry. You startled me,” Sherlock said, panting.

John swallowed back his embarrassment and picked up Sherlock’s book that had tumbled to the floor.

“No, I’m sorry; you were reading.”

“I didn't mean to—“

“No, it’s alright.” John got up and stretched his limbs, trying to hide his face that was now flushed red. “I think I'm gonna head off to bed anyway. Will you be up late?”

Sherlock let out a breath of frustration. “It was an accident. I didn’t—“

“I know, I know. I’m just…tired.”

“Right,” he said. “Goodnight, then.”

“Night. And don't leave the telly on all night, yeah? I can hear you watching children’s programmes from the bedroom.”

“I was not watching them, they just happened to be on.“

“Yeah, okay.” John chuckled bitterly. “G’night, Sherlock.”

* * *

It was the next evening, and Sherlock was at St. Bart’s, examining some sort of, well, something. John wasn’t too sure; all he knew was that Sherlock had been excited about it and likely wouldn’t be home any time soon.

Christ, John missed him. Even when Sherlock was with him he seemed miles away. And John had tried at least a dozen times over the last few weeks to tell the man how he was feeling, but with Sherlock’s unusually busy schedule and John’s admittedly poor communication skills, it was virtually impossible.

On top of it all, John hadn’t so much as had one orgasm since their relationship became strained. He’d come home exhausted from work, then be disappointed that Sherlock wasn’t home, then angry with himself for not speaking up, and then he’d just end up falling into a fitful sleep.

Maybe some release was what he needed, then. Perhaps all this built up tension could be dealt with on his own. No one was home to distract him and he had no work to do, so he might as well try to enjoy himself a bit, right?

* * *

Wrong.

This was not a good idea, John thought, as he continued to palm himself through his pants. He’d been at it for almost twenty minutes, trying to imagine the different scenarios that usually got him going with no problem, but to no avail.

He licked his lips, sunk his head back into the pillow and tried to get more comfortable. He was too tense, trying too hard. He needed to relax.

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, thinking back to the last time he and Sherlock had gotten off together.

It’d been in the loo of Scotland Yard, actually. Just a quick, desperate sort of thing, both of them too keyed up to kiss properly, their hands stroking each other with sloppy, jerky movements in order to get off as quickly as they could.

And it may have been fast, and messy, and downright indecent, but it'd felt incredible. That night was over a month ago now, and the mere thought of how long it’d been made John grimace and stop his slow strokes.

Christ, who was he kidding? This just wasn’t going to work.

John frowned and tucked himself back into his pants, sucking in gulps of air to keep himself from getting teary-eyed. How could he go from on the verge of turned on to on the verge of tears in a matter of seconds?

He sighed to himself and turned on his side, grabbing a pillow to hold in the crook of his arm in place of the best friend and lover that he’d grown so accustomed to holding.

When was Sherlock going to come home?

* * *

Sherlock once again did not join John in bed the next night, but John simply no longer had the energy to feel disappointed. Instead he felt strangely empty, the strange part being that the emptiness somehow made him feel heavy.

He burrowed his face into his pillow and tried to close his eyes. He didn’t necessarily need Sherlock there to fall asleep, but it was always easier with him.  

John could remember the first time he’d had a nightmare while sleeping next to Sherlock. He’d woken up with a short gasp, dreading the restlessness that followed, but then he saw Sherlock’s sleeping form resting so close and was immediately calmed. It was as if all the paranoia and fear just melted away and he drifted back into sleep with unprecedented ease.

But now he’d be lucky if he woke up in the morning and saw Sherlock next to him let alone after a nightmare. He was almost beginning to get used to the empty space to his left. Perhaps he should’ve seen this coming, should’ve known that Sherlock was never partial to routine and would eventually move on to something new.

John wasn’t new anymore. John was old hat now, he supposed. Sherlock probably knew all there was to know about John, and if there was nothing left to figure out, then what was the point?

“John?” Sherlock’s muffled voice snapped John out of his thoughts and sent a rush of hopeful excitement through his veins. He didn’t expect him to be home until two in the morning at the earliest.

Sherlock shuffled into the room and John listened as he let out a long sigh, tossed off his shoes and let his blazer drop to the floor. He waited until Sherlock had put his pyjamas on before even thinking about saying something, too caught up in the fact that Sherlock was actually there and might finally be joining him in bed.

“God, I’m cold. Why’s it so cold out?” Sherlock grumbled as he aggressively got under the covers. Not in the best mood, then.

“Did you remember gloves?” John asked.

“Hm? Oh, no. My hands are freezing. Stupid weather.”

“Y’know, I know something you could do to warm them up,” John said cheekily.

“John, I don’t think you’ll want my hands…there, right now. They’re really quite cold,” Sherlock warned, seeming to relax a bit as he made himself more comfortable.

“Yeah, you’re right. Well, um, goodnight, then,” John said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. His thought process was something more like ‘ _Sod your cold hands and just touch me already, damn it,’_ but it didn’t come out. Were Sherlock’s hands so cold that he didn’t want to at least hold him? Put an arm around him? He used to do that at the beginning, didn’t he?

That’s it, John thought, no more of this.

“Sherlock?” he whispered.

“Mm?”

“Sherlock, we need to talk.”

“Mhm..” Sherlock mumbled, looking already half asleep.

“Are you listening?”

“Mm…”

Damn it.

* * *

John was officially at his wit’s end. He and Sherlock were going to sit down and have a talk if it bloody well killed them. It had been far too long since they’d acted like an actual couple and John was done being quiet about it.

He set down plates and utensils on the desk in the sitting room a bit more grumpily than necessary, having ordered some takeaway with the thought that he’d be able to get Sherlock to talk _and_ eat a meal in the same sitting.

Sherlock had gone out on a case in the morning, one John hadn’t been able to join him on because of work, but he’d told Sherlock to swear that he’d be home by eight o’clock at night.

It was now precisely 7:54, however, and there was still no sign of him.

John sat down and thought about what he was going to say while he was waiting. Talking about this sort of thing was definitely not his strong suit, which was part of why he loved being with Sherlock; the man could always just deduce what he was feeling. But not this time, apparently, and now John had to figure out how to explain why the past few weeks had been more than a bit not good.

7:58. John checked his phone; not even a text.

Eight o’clock came and went, but John gave Sherlock the benefit of the doubt and waited a few more minutes.

8:15. Still nothing.

After the anger coursed through John’s mind came the usual worry that something had happened to Sherlock, so he bit the inside of his lip, picked up his phone and called him.

“John?” Sherlock answered quickly. He was okay, then. Good, now John could be mad at him.

“Sherlock, where are you?” he snapped.

“I’m at the morgue; Molly promised me ‘interesting feet,’ and I’m about to find out exactly what that entails,” he answered, sounding eager.

“Mm. And what time is it?”

“I’m not sure. Oh, Molly’s here, I have to—“

“You said you’d be home by eight, Sherlock,” John ground out through gritted teeth.

“Is it…past eight, then?”

“Okay. Goodnight. Come home whenever,” John clipped, hanging up immediately.

He set his phone down and stupidly waited to see if Sherlock would call right back, but there was nothing. He nodded curtly to himself and figured he may as well eat now, but upon opening up his food, realized he wasn’t quite so hungry anymore.

* * *

To John's surprise, Sherlock ended up coming home about ten minutes after their call. He practically scared the daylights out of John who had begun to doze off in his chair, when he came pounding up the stairs and bursting through the door.

“Christ, Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock looked at his watch, panting heavily. “Eight twenty –six, that’s not bad. What did you want to talk about?”

John shook his head. “Nice try. It’s a little late for that, though.” He got up and walked past Sherlock, heading for the stairs up to his old bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“To bed.”

“Up…up there?”

“In my old room, you mean? Yes. Problem?”

“John, I’m here now, I thought you wanted to talk.”

“I did. I don’t know if I do anymore, though. There’s Italian food in the fridge, please eat some.”

“John, I—“

“Goodnight.”

* * *

The last thing on John’s mind that night was sleep, it seemed. He stayed up and stared at the discoloured ceiling, only vaguely aware of the time passing. His old bed was smaller, so it didn’t feel as empty. He thought that maybe he should sleep in there more often.

It was somewhere around one in the morning when Sherlock came up and tapped gently on his door.

“John? I know you’re not sleeping. Please let me in.”

“Just come in, Sherlock, you’re going to anyway.”

John watched Sherlock step in, clad in his tartan dressing gown. John always loved the way that one looked on him.

“Shall I just...?” Sherlock pointed to the edge of the bed, suddenly needing permission to sit.

“Come on, then,” John conceited, moving over and sitting up to make room next to him.

Sherlock gingerly sat himself down, pointedly not looking at John.

“I don’t like not sleeping next you,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Oh, really? That must feel horrible,” John said, vitriol lurking under his voice.

“John, I realized—“

“Must be hard, turning around and not seeing the man you love and care about right next to you. Feels awful, I imagine.” John tried to sound angry but his voice only came out broken and quiet. “Bit lonely, probably.” He fidgeted with his fingers in his lap, swallowing hard.

“John, please listen to me. I was trying to say that had I tried to go to sleep, but I hadn't realized how difficult it would be without you there. I had gotten so used to you being there, that I didn’t- I never thought that- what I’m saying is, I see now what I’ve been doing to you. For a self-proclaimed genius, I can be an absolute idiot, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Sherlock’s voice was shaking slightly, and John looked to him to find his bottom lip quivering, his eyes watering.

John nodded. “You’re right. You are an idiot. But…” He slowly reached out and grasped Sherlock’s hand, holding his long fingers in his smaller ones. “But I need you. And these past few weeks, I thought maybe the feeling wasn’t so mutual anymore.”

“What?” Sherlock said in shock, pulling himself closer to John. “Of course I need you.“

“Then why take so many cases? Why stay up countless nights looking at fungus under a microscope or go to Bart’s or wherever and not even think about the last time you’ve bloody kissed me? Christ, even I can’t remember. Be honest with me, Sherlock, am I…boring now?”

For a moment, Sherlock looked completely affronted, as if John had just offended him beyond measure.

“You are many things, John Watson, but boring has never been one of them,” Sherlock said, looking him straight in the eye. And before John could get another word in, Sherlock was swooping in to kiss him.

John hadn’t felt Sherlock’s lips on his in what felt like ages, and he couldn’t stop himself from eagerly kissing back, taking in the taste of him as if for the first time all over again.

“God, Sherlock,” he sighed against his lips.

“I love you, John. I got so lost in my own head, I lost track of time. I lost track of everything. I’m sorry.” He kissed him again, sweeter and slower that time, and John honestly felt like he could cry.

“It’s all right, Sherlock. We’ve definitely got some more talking to do, but lucky for you I’m knackered. And I’m not letting you out of this bed, either,” John said matter-of-factly, wrapping a possessive arm around him.

“Trapped, am I?”

“That you are. C’mon, let’s go to sleep.” John lifted up the covers and let Sherlock wriggle his way under before wrapping his arms around his middle and holding him close. “And I love you too, you absolute idiot.”


	6. Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm really not super happy with this but I haven’t updated this story in a while so I figured I’d post this real quick. This is just what happened after I started thinking about how Sherlock usually has a positive reaction to seeing John’s scar for the first time and what would happen if he didn’t.  
> tw: scars, negative self-image, mention of injury

“You’re sure about this?” John asked, his fingers frozen at the top button of his shirt. He was sat by the headboard of the bed with Sherlock perched on the edge of it. He didn’t have to do this, he knew, but it’d been months since they’d begun a sexual relationship, and putting it off any more would only continue to build up the anxiety.

Tonight, John was finally going to show Sherlock his scar.

“Yes, I’m absolutely sure. If you’re uncomfortable with this in any way, however, we can stop,” Sherlock reassured, his voice low and soothing.

“No, no,” John said. He had to do this. Not only was keeping his shirt on during sex becoming more and more inconvenient, but the alternative of turning the lights off when he was with Sherlock only saddened him even more. He had made love in pitch darkness too many a time, and he couldn’t bear to do the same with Sherlock. “Right,” he continued, clearing his throat and unbuttoning the first button with shaky fingers. “And you promise you won’t be…disgusted? You won’t run away or, or—“

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock said with a soft smile. “Nothing about you could ever push me away.”

Deep breaths, John remembered. He could do this.

Another button went, revealing the white cotton of his undershirt.

John had never been one to be concerned with his appearance, nor what others thought of him, but he would never forget the first time he’d shown his scar to a past girlfriend. The image of her shocked, disgusted expression was still burned into his memory, and to see that same reaction from the man he loved so much would break his heart.

Eventually, John was down to the last button. He looked up at Sherlock one more time before pulling his shirt off his shoulders and taking a deep breath. He didn’t hesitate when pulling off his t-shirt next, deciding that he simply wanted to get it over with.

Panic set in as soon as cool air hit his skin, however. There was nothing to hide behind now, no veil of cotton between Sherlock’s eyes and the gnarled, uneven scar tissue that dominated his left shoulder. He grasped his now trembling hand with a white knuckled fist and decidedly did not look at Sherlock.

When moments passed without even a gasp of shock from Sherlock, though, John had to swallow back his fear and raise his head to look at him.

He immediately regretted the decision.

Sherlock’s face appeared to be a mixture of surprise, confusion and, at least in John’s eyes, disgust. He also appeared to be suddenly incapable of speech, his jaw opening and closing minutely as he stared.

This could not be happening, John thought, not again.

“Sherlock?” he asked, his voice quietly shaking.

Sherlock didn’t answer, he simply furrowed his brow and closed his slack jaw. John could practically see the wheels turning in his head, struggling to formulate something to say. He was probably trying to figure out how to say something without offending John, but to no avail, apparently, for he cast his eyes downward to avoid looking at John.

“Please say something,” John breathed. He knew he shouldn’t have done this. He knew his scar was always too much for people to take in. After he’d been shot, after the infection, after all of the work the doctors had to do to piece him back together, his shoulder was not a pretty sight. Glancing at it in the mirror every day was hard enough sometimes, so he supposed he could understand Sherlock’s reaction.

Still Sherlock stayed silent save for the sound of his heavy breathing.

“Right,” John said decisively. “Right, okay.” He stoically held back any forming tears as he started to pull his shirt back on. “It’s fine. I understand,” he reassured Sherlock, in case he was even listening.

“John,” Sherlock practically whispered, but John didn’t want to hear him right now. He didn’t want to hear the pity or the platitudes or the apologies; he just wanted to leave.

“No, no, it’s okay. I get it,” John told him. He haphazardly did up about three buttons before deciding it was good enough and hauled himself up from the bed, sending Sherlock scrambling after him.

“John, wait—“

“Don’t, Sherlock, just…don’t,” he ground out, standing halfway out the door and not even looking at him. Without another word, John left the room and tried desperately to push back his emotions.

* * *

The next morning, John was startled out of reading the paper when Sherlock’s deep baritone sliced through the silence.

“You’re avoiding me,” Sherlock stated.

John steeled himself in his chair. He _had_ been attempting to avoid this conversation all morning.

“Who says I'm avoiding you?” he asked, staring intently at the words that he wasn’t reading.

“Well, there's the obvious fact that you opted to sleep on the sofa last night as opposed to our bed, for one. Then this morning, you waited until I got into the shower to eat breakfast, then you waited until I went into my room before _you_ went in the shower,” Sherlock said. “And now you won’t look at me.”

John smiled bitterly, sighing and folding up the newspaper in defeat. “Look, Sherlock, it’s fine. However you feel about my…it doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

“Despite what you might think, I was not in any way repulsed by you last night.”

John’s head shot up to look at him. He was standing by the fireplace with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes soft with understanding.

“Then why did you look at me like that?"

“I know how it may have appeared, but I promise you that I wasn't thinking any less of you."

“So why didn’t you say anything? Why just leave me sitting there?“

Sherlock turned and sat down in his own chair, looking just as flustered as John felt. “I didn’t mean to leave you feeling the way you did. I was simply overwhelmed. The deductions just…I didn’t know what to say,” he admitted.

“So you, what, made deductions about my scar?”

“In a way. I could see everything; the injury, the infection, the pain. It wasn’t like a normal deduction because it was _you_. I can deduce that a man has had knee surgery or that someone had broken their arm when they were twelve without feeling a thing, but imagining what you must have gone through was not so easy. I'm sorry.”

Now it was John’s turn to not know what to say. He'd figured that Sherlock would've had no problem deducing his injuries, had even anticipated a prolonged explanation of the exact trajectory of the bullet that’d gone through his shoulder, but he hadn’t anticipated this sort of response. 

“Maybe I should be the one apologizing, then,” he said. “I just left and didn’t even let you explain.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for; I just want to make sure you’re all right.”

“Yeah, ‘course. I've basically spent all morning thinking you found me revolting, of _course_ I’m all right.” He smiled.

Sherlock smiled back warmly. “I don’t know how you could possibly think I could find you anything but extraordinary, John.”

“Well, you know, I'm an idiot, after all,” John said, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know why I always keep these two accounts so separate, but my tumblr is bbcbluebell if anybody wants to come over and say hi!  
> Also I just wanted to give a quick shout out to [constantlyfreemaned](http://constantlyfreemaned.tumblr.com) whose love for hurt!John always inspires me to write! You guys should go and check her blog out too! ^^


	7. Hurt Shoulder 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Parent!lock) John hurts his shoulder and attempts to hide how much pain he’s in, until Hamish notices that something is definitely not okay.

The sun had gone down outside Baker Street, and Sherlock was sat on his bed in his dimly lit room, in the middle of his traditional read-through of John’s most recent blog post. They had finished the case earlier in the day and, despite John having gotten into a nasty brawl with the murderer and taking quite the blow to his shoulder, he’d still pushed through and typed up his blog.

As Sherlock was reading through John’s overly-romantic retelling of their adventure, however, he noticed that there were even more spelling and grammatical errors than usual. John was, of his own admission, not very fond of typing, but the number of mistakes was quickly making it clear that John had been struggling for an entirely different reason. Sherlock knew he shouldn’t have let him simply pop back a few pain killers and make a cup of tea. John’s shoulder had likely been bothering him the entire time he’d been writing.

Sherlock didn’t even get to the end of the post before he had to stop, unable to think about anything other than how much pain John must have been in as he typed it, and the fact that he’d tried to hide it. He set his laptop aside and was just about to go check on John when there was a tiny, almost inaudible knock on his door.

“Daddy?” it was Hamish, and there was clearly something wrong; his voice was far too quiet.

“Come in,” Sherlock called.

Sherlock watched as the door squeaked slowly open, and the boy stepped in cautiously as opposed to his usual method of simply knocking frantically before letting himself in, something Sherlock must have unintentionally passed on to him.

“Hamish, what's wrong?” He was in his pyjamas, his favourite stuffed bee clutched to his side, but his eyes looked red-rimmed and brimming with tears.

“Daddy, why's papa crying?” he asked, his voice small and shaking. Sherlock was fairly sure that he knew exactly why, but didn’t want to startle Hamish or upset him further.

“What happened?” he asked, quickly getting up.

“I don't know, he won't answer me.”

Sherlock knelt down in front of him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder and trying not to let the slight panic in his chest show on his face.

“I'll go check on him. Just stay here for a moment, all right?” he asked. Hamish hugged his bee tighter and nodded.

Sherlock practically stormed into the sitting room after leaving his bedroom, finding John to be hunched over in his armchair, looking very much like he hadn’t moved from that spot for hours. He didn’t look up at Sherlock when he came in, only continued to clutch his shoulder.

“John? John, what's wrong?” Sherlock tried to keep his voice low, knowing John could be easily overwhelmed when he was in a lot of pain.

“Mm...s'my shoulder,” he slurred, scrunching up his face in discomfort.

“How bad is it? Can you move?”

“Yeah, just...painful.” He took as deep a breath as he could and attempted to sit up more, clearly struggling with the motion. Sherlock wished desperately that there was something he could do to make John’s pain go away instantly.

“Worse than it was this afternoon?” he asked.

“Yeah…painkillers wore off.”

“What should I do?”

“Go check on Hamish,” John deflected. Sherlock knew that John loathed to be seen in such a state, but he would have to deal with it for now.

“Hamish is fine. Tell me what you need, please.”

“Just...a hot water bottle for now.”

“Right. And I'll get you some more pain killers as well.”

“Already took some.”

“Damn it,” Sherlock cursed as he rushed into the kitchen. He dug out the hot water bottle and turned on the tap, thumping his foot impatiently as he waited for the water to get warm. Not even seconds later, he heard the tell-tale soft tapping of Hamish’s footsteps coming into the kitchen.

“Daddy?”

Sherlock looked away from the tap for a moment to turn to him.

“What's the matter, Hamish?”

“Is papa okay?” He asked, his worry evident in his eyes. Sherlock should have known he’d want to know exactly what was happening.

“He'll be fine, don't worry. Why don't you go in my room and...look through my things,” Sherlock suggested.

“What's wrong with papa? You _never_ let me look at your stuff!” Damn it, the kid was too smart for his own good.

Sherlock’s retort was cut off by a loud groan coming from the sitting room. Hamish let out a short gasp and was about to run off to John before Sherlock caught him and held him back.

“Hamish, listen to me. Papa isn't feeling very well right now, and he needs my help to feel better, which he _will_ , I promise. Now, why don't you—“

“But I want to help! What can _I_ do?” Hamish pleaded. Sherlock’s answer was once again interrupted when he noticed the steam billowing up from the now scalding running water.

“Oh, Christ.” He shot back to the sink and turned down the water, having to let Hamish scamper into the sitting room behind him.

“Papa?” he heard Hamish ask. “Daddy says you don't feel good. I want to help.” Sherlock finally finished filling the hot water bottle, wrapped a tea towel around it and walked quickly back to John.

“He’s not answering!” Hamish told him. This was why Sherlock was hesitant to let Hamish help; John could get either extremely quiet or extremely swear-happy when he was in pain, and he wasn’t sure he wanted Hamish to be around for either of those possibilities.

“John?”

“Mm?” John was now leaning back in his chair, a white-knuckled hand still practically glued to his left shoulder.

“John, look at me,” Sherlock said softly, kneeling before him and putting a hand to his cheek.

“Christ, it hurts,” he breathed. He sounded as if he was fighting back tears. Sherlock didn’t know if he’d seen him in such a bad way before.

“I’m going to put the heat on it now. You’ll have to move your hand.”

John slowly but surely released his grip and took the bottle from Sherlock, his face relaxing minutely when the warmth seeped through his skin.

“It's never been this bad before, are you sure you don’t need to go to hospital?” Sherlock asked. He’d asked him earlier as well, right after he’d been hurt, but of course John had insisted that he was fine.

 _“Hospital_?” Hamish repeated with heightened worry.

John shook his head and sat up a little further.

“Hamish, your dad's being silly,” he reassured before turning back to Sherlock. “Look, I'm fine. It's probably just a trapped nerve.”

“ _Just_?”

“Sherlock, the heat is helping, okay?" His voice still sounded a little rough, but definitely a lot less strained. "I can try and get an appointment tomorrow to make sure there’s no serious damage, but for now I just need to rest for a bit.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“All right,” Sherlock conceded. He moved closer to Hamish and brought him in for a comforting hug.

“Did you hear papa, Hamish? He just needs a little nap for now, that's all.”

“Just a nap?” Hamish looked to John doubtfully and back to Sherlock, still not convinced.

“C'mere, Hamish.” John patted his lap in invitation. “Come and sit with me for a minute, okay?” He gave Sherlock a subtle nod that said _Yes, he can sit on my lap without hurting me, it’s fine._ Hamish, however, did not understand that silent communication and stood stock still, indecision written in the way he chewed nervously at his thumb.

“You're not gonna hurt me, I promise. C'mon,” John assured.

That was all the encouragement he needed, apparently, for he eagerly stepped forward and, stuffed bumble bee still in hand, clambered up onto John’s lap. Sherlock smiled warmly at the two of them before getting up to go and make tea, figuring John would ask for it now that he was feeling a little better.

“Oof, you're getting big,” John laughed. “You might just be as tall as your dad someday.”

“What about Uncle Mycroft?” Hamish asked, tucking himself comfortably in the crook of John’s neck.

“Mycroft is _not_ taller!” Sherlock asserted form the kitchen.

“He is, Sherlock, just let it go,” John called back. “Yes, love, you could be as tall as Uncle Mycroft one day, if you keep eating your vegetables like papa says you should.“

Hamish looked pensive for a moment. “Um, I changed my mind. I don't care about being tall.”

“Very funny.” John noticed that Hamish was looking worriedly at his shoulder. While he was still in a fair amount of pain, he had thankfully relaxed enough to move and speak without cringing, and the painkillers he’d taken were bound to be taking effect soon. “Hey, I'm okay, yeah?”

Hamish nodded and gave a small smile.

“Now, what do you think we should watch on telly?”

“Can we watch the one about bees again?”

“Of course we can, sweetheart,” John said, picking up the remote and flicking on television. John hadn’t even started playing the documentary before Sherlock was scuttling into the room and attempting to look like he wasn’t just as excited as their son to watch it.

“Joining us?”

“Just staying in here to make sure you're all right, obviously.”

“Obviously,” John chuckled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! ^^


	8. Dehydration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has been spending too much time focusing on rugby practice and not enough time on his health.  
> tw: under-eating, dehydration
> 
> This is pretty similar to chapter two, but I'd started writing this a long time ago and wanted to finish it up, plus I just really like rugby!John :) Also, I know I tend to write a lot about John being stubborn and not wanting to accept help, so apologies if my stuff seems repetitive, I guess that’s just a trope that I enjoy.

The rugby pitch was sodden and riddled with patches of mud from the morning’s rain, but John had still insisted on coming out to practice.

Sherlock was standing on the sidelines, keeping a wary eye on John in the event that he slipped and fell on the damp grass.

The afternoon sky was full of looming grey clouds and the brisk bite in the air made Sherlock’s pale nose and cheeks turn a bright, rosy pink. He was just about to start wondering exactly how much longer John planned to be out here when John called out to him to say that he was finished for the day.

Sherlock heard the signature squelch of trainers on soggy ground as John jogged towards him. He grinned at the thought of the two of them going back to his house where John would have a shower and nag Sherlock to watch crap telly with him afterwards.

It was then that he noticed that John had slowed his pace to a walk and was limping slightly. By the time he got to Sherlock, his head was down and Sherlock could hear his heavy, uneven breaths.

“John?” he asked, trying not to let the sudden concern seep into his voice.

John ignored him in favour of wiping the sweat from his brow and headed straight towards his gym bag.

“John.” Sherlock jogged after him, catching his upper arm and stopping him. “What’s wrong?”

“S’nothing,” John slurred, continuing to not make eye contact.

John tried to walk further, but didn’t get very far before his knees buckled and he landed with a weak thud on the grass.

Sherlock knelt down next to him immediately, his hands on his shoulders, leaning him back to get a better look at him.

“Sherlock,” John breathed. “I don’t feel too good.”

“I could’ve guessed that,” Sherlock snapped instinctively as his eyes roamed around John’s face. How had he not noticed how tired and sunken in John’s eyes looked? Had he been this pale when they’d first come outside? “What is it? What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Mmf,” John murmured, his face locked in a tight grimace.

“John? Talk to me.” Sherlock’s hand cupped the back of John’s head in support while he checked him for a fever.

“M’fine, just got a little dizzy is all. Came outta nowhere.”

“Do you still feel dizzy?”

“A little.”

“All right. What else? Are you going to be sick?”

“No, no,” John assured, despite the fact that he looked like he just might spill his guts all over Sherlock’s jeans.

“What did you eat today?”

“Erm,” John opened his eyes a bit and looked down guiltily. Sherlock took that as meaning he hadn’t eaten anything.

“Okay then, what did you eat yesterday?”

“Um…” John still couldn’t look Sherlock in the eye.

“For god’s sake, John. All the times you pester me to eat, and now—“

John suddenly let out a pained groan and wrapped his arms around his stomach. He slumped forward until his head landed in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. He was practically a dead weight leaning on Sherlock, who had immediately wrapped his arms around him and found him to be trembling lightly.

“Sh’lock, I don’t feel good.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“I really don’t feel good.” John’s voice came out as a harsh whisper, and as soon as he finished speaking, he became limp in Sherlock’s arms, his head lolling to the side.

“John?” Sherlock frantically shook John’s shoulders, but he already seemed to be at the cusp of unconsciousness.

Sherlock stretched his arm out to reach the change of clothes in John’s bag and yanked out a shirt to lay on the ground and rest John’s head on it. John’s brow was furrowed under his sweat-soaked fringe as he mumbled incoherently, and Sherlock could see that his face had gone from pale to a sickly grey colour.

Sherlock knew something was wrong, something that probably couldn’t be fixed with a shower and a cup of Earl Grey, so he fished out his mobile from his pocket and called for an ambulance.

* * *

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked, looking to John who was tucked under a stiff hospital blanket. Sherlock thought he looked like he was ready to fall asleep any second.

“Yeah, good. Much better,” John said weakly. He had been in the hospital for a few hours but had only been awake for about one. “This bloody thing hurts like hell, though.” He motioned to the IV stuck in the crook of his arm.

“Well, you were severely dehydrated, which caused your veins to be significantly smaller, thus making it harder for the nurse to find a good place to insert the IV, which of course—“

“All right, thank you, Dr. Sherlock.” John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was glad to hear John’s familiar sarcastic tone return, as opposed to his frighteningly weak voice back at the pitch.

“Why do you do this, John?” Sherlock couldn’t help it; he had to ask. He knew it wasn’t the best time, but he just couldn’t let the thoughts buzz around in his head anymore.

John only looked at him in confusion.

“What?”

“Practice non-stop, overwork yourself—“

“Hold on, I do not—“

“Yes, you do. You fall into a tired heap on your bed after every game and don’t get up for practically an entire day. You’re _always_ exhausted, don’t think I don’t notice. It’s been getting worse and you know it has. Why do you refuse to give yourself a break?”

“Sherlock, I don’t…look, just drop it, alright? I’m knackered and Harry’s gonna be here soon and I’ll need all the energy I’ve got left just to deal with her, so can we please not have this conversation right now?” John sounded like he’d used all his energy just to get his words out, so Sherlock figured he may as well let the topic slide for now and let John get his rest.

“You’re right; dealing with your sister always proves to be a taxing experience.” Sherlock smiled, and John let out a quick chuckle.

“Stay with me?” John asked, holding a hand out in invitation.

“Obviously.” Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

* * *

It was a few days after John’s trip to the hospital, and he was racing around his room like a madman as he got his things together for rugby practice. He needed his uniform, his socks, his shoes- god, where was the _other_ shoe? His uniform _was_ washed, right? And oh, Sherlock was there too, leaning on the door with his arms folded, watching John race back and forth.

“Sherlock, I can’t just stop practicing,” he argued. He and Sherlock had been at it for almost twenty minutes now, still not appearing to be any closer to agreeing on anything.

“I didn’t stay to stop practicing, I said practice _less_.”

“I can’t, don’t you get it? My dad’ll kill me if I don’t do well in these games.”

“I don’t see why—“

“I need a scholarship if I’m gonna go to med school, that’s why. I had one bad day, and I’m fine now, okay?”

“But you’re not, John,” Sherlock insisted. “You don’t eat enough, and—

“Oh, like you’re one to talk. I had to remind you to eat dinner yesterday.”

“We’re not talking about me, and you know perfectly well that you should be eating more with how active you are. Exactly what kind of doctor do you want to be?”

John stopped in his tracks and shot daggers at his boyfriend. That was a low blow, even for Sherlock.

“Get out,” he said.

“John—“

“No, leave me alone, okay?”

“I didn’t mean—“

“Yes, you did. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

* * *

It was almost midnight, and Sherlock was sitting on his sofa with his knees curled up to his chest and his face buried in a book. He couldn’t sleep, not that he kept much of a normal sleeping schedule anyway, but he couldn’t even focus on any experiments, either.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his fight with John. They hardly ever argued, but they could both be incredibly hotheaded, so it was never a pretty sight when they did. And it wasn’t just the fighting; Sherlock was worried about John. He didn’t want to watch his boyfriend collapse from exhaustion in front of him ever again.

The sound of soft knocking on the front door broke Sherlock out of his thoughts. He didn’t even have to think about it; it was John. Sherlock could always tell who was at the door based on how they knocked.

He got up and opened the door slowly to reveal John on the other side, dressed in comfortable clothes and looking freshly showered but donning a sad, worn expression on his face.

“Er…hello.” John grinned bitterly.

“Come in,” Sherlock said, gesturing John inside.

John followed him into the sitting room and stopped short, seeming hesitant to go any further. He cleared his throat and looked up at Sherlock.

“I just wanted to say…I’m sorry,” he said. “You were right, before.”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not, though,” John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “I’m not taking care of myself. And I’m- I’m sorry I told you to leave. I wasn’t angry with you, necessarily, I was just—“

“Angry with yourself?”

“Yeah, that, thank you.” He nodded.

“I know, John. I know you have trouble admitting when you have a problem. You’re incredibly stubborn.”

“Yeah, maybe a little.” John laughed.

“It might be better if we sat down.”

“No, it’s fine—“

“Do you see what I mean?”

John frowned. He was silent as he sat down next to Sherlock on the sofa.

“Sorry,” he started, his voice hushed as if he were telling Sherlock a secret, “I know I need to eat better, and sleep more. I just…I always think I can handle everything, y’know?”

Sherlock nodded.

“When mum left, I had to take care of Harry, and last year I had to get a job, and I’ve got to keep my grades up, and then there’s rugby, and—“ John stopped and held back a sob. He put his face in his hands and Sherlock could tell that he was trying not to audibly cry.

“John?”

“I can’t- I can’t keep pretending like I can handle it all. I bloody can’t, Sherlock.” Then suddenly, Sherlock had an armful of John. The blond teen buried his face in Sherlock’s chest and started to cry in earnest.

Admittedly, Sherlock didn’t know exactly what to do. He had never seen John like this before.

He wrapped his arms around him tighter and stroked his hair like John had done for him in the past, hoping he was helping in some way.

“What do I do?” John sobbed.

“Well, for one, perhaps you can take less shifts at your job. Maybe just one less shift a week, if that’s possible,” he suggested. “And I can help with your revision so you’ll get it done faster; lord only knows what horribly ineffective methods you’ve been using,” he joked, grinning when he felt John let out a soft chuckle. “And you only practice rugby when you absolutely need to. And you eat more.”

“O-Okay. I- I think I can do that.”

“Good. And I’ll help you, John, if you need it. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help.”

John sat up a bit and rubbed his eyes.

“Okay, deal. But you have to promise to eat better too, mister ‘digestion slows me down.’ Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any suggestions for some John!whump, feel free to let me know! General feedback is also greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	9. Glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't want to admit that he might need glasses. This got a little angstier than I thought, but I hope you like it!

“And what’ll it be for you, sir?” The waiter asked, pen at the ready to jot down John’s order.

John had been looking at the menu since he and Sherlock had sat down at their table. He’d gone from narrowing his eyes at the words in an attempt to read them, to holding the paper away from his face to make things clearer and right back to squinting again. Now he held a finger to his mouth as he continued to squint down at the words, clearly still struggling to make them out.  

“I’ll have the um, the er, the—“

“The chicken parmesan, please,” Sherlock interrupted, quickly snatching away John’s menu afterwards. “Thank you.” He handed the menus back to the waiter and gave him an attempt at a friendly smile.

John also shot the waiter an affable grin as he walked away, but his face fell as soon as the man was gone. Sherlock knew that face; brow furrowed, eyes cold, lips set in a firm line. He was in trouble, but that wasn’t going to stop him.

“Sherlock, don’t,” John warned.

But Sherlock paid him no mind. They needed to talk about this and John had been avoiding the subject for far too long.

“John, I believe it's becoming quite clear to you now, or perhaps I should say _unclear,_ that it’s finally time that you went out and got yourself a pair of—“

“No, stop it.”

“—glasses.”

“Sherlock, not now.” John’s voice was stern, authoritative. Obviously not in the mood to discuss the matter, but honestly, how many more times was John going struggle his way through something as simple as reading a menu before he realized that getting glasses was not only practical, but necessary at this point?

“When, then?” Sherlock snapped back. “When you trip over a stack of books in the sitting room and injure yourself?”

“Well, maybe if you’d tidy up every now and then—“

“That’s not what this is about and you know it. Face it, John, you're getting older and your eyesight is not as crystal clear as it used to be. And if you don't want to keep squinting at things and stumbling over cracks in the pavement then I suggest you get over whatever little crisis you're having and _get a pair of glasses_.” The moment the words left his mouth, Sherlock realized that he may have been a bit too harsh.

“You know, I don't really think I'm very hungry anymore. Excuse me,” John said, eerily calm. He picked himself up and didn’t even bother glancing at Sherlock as he left the table.

“John, wait, no—“ Sherlock tried calling out, but it was obvious that John was not going to listen. He looked to be on his way to the loo as opposed to simply walking out of the restaurant, though, which Sherlock supposed was preferable.

John was likely not in the mood to talk or accept any apologies, but Sherlock couldn’t stand to sit at the table when he knew that John was hurting somewhere else, so he got up and made his way to the gents.

Slowly, Sherlock opened the door and peered inside, letting out a short gasp under his breath at the sight of his lover stood over the sink at the end of the room, his head down with one hand pinching the bridge of his nose and the other clenching the counter with a white-knuckled fist.

Sherlock took his time approaching John in case he asked him to leave. He sidled up to the sink next to him and bit his lip, trying to think of what to say.

“John, I’m sorry. That was…cruel of me. I realize now why you don't like to discuss these things when we're out to dinner. John?”

“Christ, I'm getting old,” John murmured under his breath, still not looking at Sherlock.

“What? _That’s_ what you took out of that conversation? I wasn’t trying to imply- I didn’t mean…it wasn’t my intention to upset you.” Sherlock sighed. In truth, his words had come from a place of concern, but somehow his well-meant thoughts always managed to have the complete opposite effect that he intended once they came out of his mouth.

“Sherlock, take me home?” John asked, his voice a hollow shell carved out from his previous anger.

“Of course.”

* * *

When they arrived back to 221b, John shed his jacket slowly while Sherlock stood and awaited anything he might have to say.

John had been silent the entire cab ride home, so naturally Sherlock expected him to start talking almost as soon as they’d walked through the door, but instead, John simply looked at him and motioned for them to sit down.

They settled into their chairs, but still John stayed quiet, as if waiting for the correct moment to break the silence.

“I’m not stupid, you know,” John said after a few more moments, his hands ever-fidgeting in his lap.

Sherlock only nodded, unsure if John would appreciate any comments just yet.

“I know I need glasses,” he admitted quietly, as if hoping that the words wouldn’t reach across the room. “I just…” He looked to Sherlock expectantly.

“What?”

John shrugged and shook his head. “Nothing, just, normally this is the part where you take over and tell me exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Oh, well, I’d assumed you wouldn’t appreciate that at the moment.”

“No, you go ahead. I’d rather you say it.”

Sherlock sat back in his sinking leather armchair and steepled his fingers in thought.

“Well, clearly it’s not just about getting glasses. You’re not the type to fuss over your appearance, and even if you were, there’s always the option of contact lenses. So it’s a deeper issue, then.” He paused, carefully thinking over his choice of words. “You’re…insecure about…getting older, though I fail to see why,” he finished.

“Isn’t it obvious?” John asked.

“Not to me.”

“That’s a first.”

“John.”

“Right, sorry.” John cleared his throat and awkwardly adjusted himself in his chair. “You’re right, though. I could honestly give a toss about having to wear glasses, but…”

“But?”

John turned his head and let out a breathless laugh. “Jesus, Sherlock, I’m not twenty years old anymore, okay? And yes, ‘obviously,’ I know, of course I know that. But this...it’s like a flashing reminder that pretty soon it’s not gonna be just my eyes, it’ll be my shoulder or my leg, or my bloody hand that still shakes sometimes, and then—“ he stopped short, putting a hand to his forehead and taking a deep breath.

“And then what?”

John smiled bitterly. “Come on, like you’d want to be seen running around with an old man.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re not that much older than me.”

“Then why does it feel like I am?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look, it’s not important, I’m just- I’m being stupid right now, yeah? Let’s forget it.”

“You’re not getting out of this that easy,” Sherlock said, sitting up straighter in his chair, more concerned now than he’d been the entire evening.

John shook his head dismissively. “This is just me having a pity party, okay? It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine, I just need some sleep.”

“No, tell me what’s wrong. Please,” he practically begged.

Steeling himself in his chair, John took a deep, ragged breath and finally lifted his head to look Sherlock in the eye.

“What good would I be to you, Sherlock?” He asked, his voice quietly shaking. “When five, ten years from now you’re still running around like a mad man and I’ll be trailing too far behind, not able to keep up with you. I know my limp was psychosomatic, but my leg still aches from time to time, and the pain in my shoulder, I swear it gets worse every few years. I just…” John looked away, tears welling reluctantly in his eyes, “I don’t want to hold you back.”

Biting his bottom lip, Sherlock just barely kept himself from unleashing his response onto John in one rapid-fire sentence. Instead, he closed his eyes and let his thoughts simmer until they formed a cohesive point.

“John,” he started, “there is no possible way, no alternate reality, no version of you that could _ever_ hold me back.”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Do you honestly believe, after all this time, that I would only want to be with you if you’re…useful?” Sherlock asked, distaste sitting sourly on his tongue.

“No, god, no. I don’t think that, I don’t, but sometimes it’s hard to—“ John sighed. “It’s not rational, I know. I know that you love me, and I love you, and I know that you would never…but the thoughts are still there, creeping up on me when it’s three in the morning and you’re wide awake and I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“You and I both know I have less than ordinary sleeping habits.”

“Yeah, I know,” he chuckled softly. ”But you get the idea. I can’t help it, Sherlock, these thoughts just happen, sometimes.”

“Yes, but how can I help them to…not happen?” Sherlock asked, suddenly sounding as if he were trying to work out a problem for a case. “What can I do to reassure you? I don’t know how to put into words how important you are to me, how extraordinary I think you are."

“You think I’m extraordinary?”

“Had I not told you that?”

“No, no, you have, just still can’t bloody believe it.”

“Well, you are. You are one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. You are kind, loving, and ridiculously patient. Not to mention thoughtful, understanding, and pretty damn smart to boot,” he said with a soft smile.

The corner of John’s mouth quirked up in a small grin. He got up out of his chair and reached out to gently rest his hand on Sherlock’s arm and pull him closer. “You’re right,” he said, smiling. “I am pretty extraordinary.”

“There’s the John Watson I know.” Sherlock beamed, leaning down to plant a chaste kiss on his jaw.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and tucked his head into the crook of his neck, feeling light and happy. “I do still need to have my eyes checked, though,” he reminded him.

Sherlock smirked. “You know,” he said, pressing his mouth to John’s ear and whispering roughly, “I think you would look quite sexy with glasses.”

“I’ll make an appointment tomorrow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! :D 
> 
> What kind of glasses do you think John would have? I personally like [the ones](http://dex5m.tumblr.com/post/105552916726) Martin had in Nativity!


	10. Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock leaves John behind on a chase through the woods.
> 
> I know that the beginning of this is pretty similar to the first chapter, but I hope it’s okay anyway and I hope you enjoy it! Also, I should mention that I went back and fixed some things about the previous chapters that were bugging me, and I ended up deleting a chapter because I really wasn’t happy with it, so apologies if things seem a little different!
> 
> tw: mild depiction of blood/injury

Sherlock and John were deep into the woods, following a dusty dirt path surrounded by thickets and aging trees, the branches like claws silhouetted against the night sky.

John was running in an attempt to keep up with Sherlock’s impossibly long strides as he chased after their suspect. He thought that by now Sherlock would have known that John simply couldn’t run as fast as he could, but he supposed that once Sherlock had his focus locked down on something, he likely wasn’t thinking of much else.

John panted heavily as he ran, his feet thudding loudly as they hit the ground. Sherlock’s shape was difficult to make out in the darkness, but he could see that he wasn’t too far ahead, and the suspect seemed to be just a hair away from him, and so John slowed his pace a fraction with the thought that Sherlock was only moments away from stopping the man.

John’s eyes widened in shock, then, when the suspect changed direction and bolted ahead even faster, practically leaving Sherlock in the dust. This was not good, John thought; his bones were already beginning to ache and he didn’t know how much steam he had left in him for this chase. And when he saw Sherlock sprint forward with newfound determination, John knew that there was no way he’d be able to keep up.

“Sherlock! Wait!” John called out in a desperate attempt to let him know that he was falling behind. Sherlock had promised to stop going into dangerous situations without him, he’d promised not to leave him out of things like this anymore, but at this point, John doubted that Sherlock would slow down enough to allow him to catch up. 

John was running as fast as his legs could carry him, but despite his best efforts, the image of Sherlock’s long billowing coat began to fade as Sherlock got farther and farther away.

“Sherlock!” John bellowed. His voice was rough with exhaustion but he couldn’t let Sherlock be without backup to try to take down a man who was known to be far too good with a knife.

John grimaced but continued to run, the trees whizzing past his vision as he moved.

“Sherl...” John tried to yell, but there didn’t seem to be enough air in his lungs. He opened his mouth to call for him again, but was abruptly cut off when the tip of his shoe became wedged in a tree root and he found himself falling and falling fast.

John hit the ground with brutal force. His movements had come to a halt but when he opened his eyes, everything around him appeared to be spinning. His entire right side felt awash in searing pain, pain that he couldn’t even fathom yet with his mind still trying to comprehend the shock of the fall itself. He groaned and shut his eyes tight, attempting to bring back the wind that’d been so thoroughly knocked out of him.

Once he felt that he could gather his thoughts for more than a few seconds, he realized that most of his face had landed on a cluster of rocks, and it was likely the cause of the pain radiating through his jaw and head.

The feeling of gritty soil in his mouth made him want to be sick, and he coughed weakly in an attempt to rid his tongue of dirt, but he was still far too out of breath for it to make much of a difference.

Everything hurt and he couldn’t think straight, but somewhere in the back of his mind was the hope that Sherlock would realize that he was gone and come find him, because with black spots now starting to cloud his vision, it wasn’t looking like John would be getting up anytime soon.

* * *

It was only after Sherlock had successfully apprehended the suspect had he realized with a sharp sting of panic that not only was John not with him, but that he hadn’t been trailing behind him for the last few minutes of the chase, either.

Now, after having run back down the path as fast he could, he was kneeling in front of the barely conscious form of John, attempting to ascertain what his injuries were. What Sherlock could tell in the low light was that John had tripped, quite badly, it seemed, and there was almost certainly something wrong with his ankle going by the way that his foot was twisted.

The acrid smell of blood filled Sherlock’s nose as he turned John’s head as gently as possible, making John let out a low groan. It was clear that John had hit his head when he’d fallen, and Sherlock sincerely hoped that the tacky blood sticking to John’s hair made the injury look much worse than it actually was.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, Sherlock pulled off his glove and pressed Lestrade’s name.

“Lestrade,” he greeted, only then realizing that he’d been breathing heavily. “I’ve got your suspect, handcuffed to a tree, in fact. I’ll tell you where he is and you can send your team to go and fetch him. I may need your help getting John back to the inn.” He looked down with a grimace at his friend. “And I’m going to need you to phone an ambulance.”

* * *

It took close to fifteen agonizing minutes for Lestrade to finally reach them, in which time Sherlock had attempted to get some sort of response out of John, but it was to no avail with John sluggishly drifting in and out of consciousness.

Lestrade’s heavy footfalls crunched on the pathway as he came closer. He flicked on his torch and shone it on the two of them, sucking in a breath when he saw the state John was in.  

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock,” he panted. “What the hell happened?”

“I believe he had a bit of a fall,” Sherlock answered.

“Can you get him up?” Lestrade asked as he moved in closer and crouched down next to Sherlock.

“I’ve tried. Clearly he’s in a lot of pain,” he said, the pang of worry in his chest seeping through his voice.

“Right.” Lestrade bit his bottom lip in thought.  “How about I wrap his left arm around my shoulder,” he said as he reached over to carefully lift John’s arm up. “And you take his other arm.”

Sherlock nodded and helped to support John’s weight as Lestrade slowly pulled him up. John let out small cries of pain as he was lifted, almost collapsing again entirely when weight was put on his ankle.

“Sorry, mate, we gotta get you out of here,” Lestrade tried to reassure.

“You’ve called for an ambulance?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, should be there by the time we get back.”

Slowly, Sherlock and Lestrade began to walk with John, but it was clear that it was going to be difficult. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a stab of guilt every time John let out a pained noise; how had he failed to notice that John had stopped running behind him? How had he not realized that John hadn’t been there as he was apprehending their suspect? Sherlock wanted to chalk it all up to adrenaline, but he knew that wasn’t it, and the worst part was that Sherlock had done this to John before. He would leave him at crime scenes, dash off without him at St. Bart’s, and somehow, John would eventually forgive him, but Sherlock wasn’t so sure that would be the case this time.

* * *

John was sleeping. Or rather, he was pretending to sleep. After John had been admitted to the hospital last night, he hadn’t done much other than sleep, or pretend to in an effort to ignore Sherlock’s presence.

But Sherlock had continued to sit by John’s side despite the fact that John was clearly angry with him. He wasn’t going to leave him, not again.

Sherlock looked to John and frowned at the deep purple and red bruising that crept along John’s jawline, leading up to the now bandaged cut near his temple. The bruising made it difficult for him to move his jaw, making it a challenge to eat and speak. The worst of John’s injuries, however, was his ankle, which he’d severely sprained when he’d fallen. He was going to have to wear a brace and use crutches for a solid few weeks, which Sherlock knew John was dreading since John loathed inactivity almost as much as Sherlock did.

Sherlock took in a deep breath of the bitter, chemical-laden air of the hospital room and wished that he knew what to do. Muffled, tinny voices were coming from the small television hung in the corner of the room, and Sherlock looked up at it for the first time since he’d been there, hoping it would serve as some sort of distraction.   

“This programme is dreadful,” he announced after watching for two minutes, not really expecting a response from John.

“Ch’nge it, then,” John muttered without looking at him, his voice low and strained.

Sherlock hid his surprise and flipped aimlessly through the channels for a while, stopping when he came to a nature documentary.

“There. Much better,” he said.

No response came from John, but Sherlock didn’t want to stop trying; it was progress compared to the curt ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers he’d gotten all morning.

“You haven’t finished your applesauce,” he said, pointing to the small, half empty container that sat on the fold-out table in front of John.

“D’n want it,” John replied.

“You should eat.”

“Sod off.”

Right, Sherlock thought, not a good start.

“I’ll just take this, then, shall I?” He grabbed the cup and tossed it in the bin. He was silent for a moment as he thought of something to say.

“Evans was caught. Case closed,” he tried.

“Mm.” John shut his eyes tightly and turned to face the wall.

“Haven’t done the paperwork.”

“Mm.”

Sherlock turned the television off.

“You should get some rest. You’ll be discharged this afternoon.”

“Mm.”

Silence stretched out between them as John drifted back to sleep.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

* * *

The sounds of passing traffic and stray voices filtered in through the window of the cab, sounding louder than John had ever heard in contrast to the tense, quiet air between him and Sherlock.

John could tell that there were words forming at the tip of Sherlock’s tongue that he wanted to say, but he was holding himself back. John was glad for it, though, because the last thing he wanted to do at that moment was talk. Not only because talking proved a painful experience, but because he wasn’t even sure what to say.

The one thing that John did know was that he was exhausted. The sleep that he’d had in the hospital was fitful at best; being awoken every hour or so from an ache or pain, or to take more medication. It left him feeling groggy and worn out, and all he wanted to do was have an obnoxiously long nap.

When the cab pulled up to 221b, Sherlock paid the driver and hopped out of the car immediately after, rushing over to open John’s door for him. John hoped that his sudden courtesy wouldn’t last for long, because he really didn’t need Sherlock to mollycoddle him.

Walking with the crutches was still a tad awkward, but John got in the door just fine. And it might have taken him a lot longer than he would’ve liked, but he managed to make it up the stairs without a hitch, as well. And Sherlock really hadn’t needed to watch him as he climbed up. Honestly, it was just a sprained ankle and some bruises; it wasn’t that big of a deal.  

“You can take my bed,” Sherlock said when John entered the sitting room.

John furrowed his brow. “What?”

“My bed. You should sleep in there for the first week or so. It’ll be easier on your ankle. Not as many stairs involved.”

John watched Sherlock shuck off his coat and untie his scarf, wanting to argue, wanting to tell him that he didn’t need to do that, but he just didn’t have it in him. He was far too tired, and he knew that Sherlock was right, anyway.

“Okay,” he said, sighing dejectedly.

John slowly started to make his way to Sherlock’s room, hearing Sherlock follow him into the kitchen as he went.

“I’ll make some dinner,” Sherlock said.

“Not hungry.”

“Pasta. You like pasta. I’ll make that,” he continued.

John looked at him and shook his head. Sherlock was obviously feeling somewhat guilty, and eventually he and Sherlock would need to sit down and have a proper talk, but right now John needed to sleep and Sherlock needed to do whatever he was going to do.

Nodding curtly to himself, John shuffled into Sherlock’s bedroom and started taking some pillows from his bed to elevate his ankle on.

* * *

Sherlock and John danced around each other in an uncomfortable silence for the rest of the night. Sherlock made dinner, deciding to forego the pasta and make soup instead since it would be easier for John to eat.

The two of them sat in their respective armchairs and watched crap telly as they ate, John smiling at the screen every now and then.

Sherlock helped get a shower ready for John and knocked on the bathroom door every few minutes to make sure he was okay. And at around ten o’clock, John went off to bed, leaving Sherlock with an unresolved feeling churning in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

John awoke to the soft patter of rain on the bedroom window. Sherlock’s bedroom window, he reminded himself. He stretched lightly and looked to the bedside table to find his pain medication and a glass of water.

Sherlock was still determined to be helpful, it seemed. Despite his previous anger, however, John was grateful and feeling much better compared to the day before. His jaw didn’t ache nearly as much and it would probably be a lot easier to talk.

Wincing slightly as he pulled himself up, John quickly downed the pills and grabbed his crutches so he could start getting ready for the day.

After having a quick shower and skipping a shave for the time being, he carefully got dressed in some jeans and a comfy jumper and padded into the kitchen for some breakfast.

When he looked into the sitting room, John saw that Sherlock was already up and engrossed in something on his laptop. John decided to make himself some porridge, though he did need a bit of help carrying his bowl and glass of juice across the room so he could sit in his armchair and watch the news.

Since the medication hadn’t quite kicked in yet, getting himself comfortable still resulted in various pain-filled grunts and groans.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked, already halfway out of his chair in case John needed help.

“Hm? Yeah,” John answered. “Erm, thank you,” he added.

“For what?”

“Helping me.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s the least I could do. After all it was my fault that you—“

“Wasn’t you fault,” John interrupted.

“Wasn’t it?” Sherlock put his computer aside and got up to pace around the small space between the chairs. “You wouldn’t have been hurt as badly if you hadn’t been running so fast. Why were you running so fast? To try to keep up with me. And why were you doing that? Because I’d decided to bolt ahead of you and not look to make sure that you were still with me,” he said quickly. 

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock...do you know why I was so angry?”

“Because I’d promised not to go off without you anymore.”

“Because…you could’ve been hurt,” John told him.

“What?”

“That man was…dangerous. You could’ve…” he trailed off, looking to the floor.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. “I’m sorry. “

John worried his bottom lip and nodded. “S’all right.”

“It’s isn’t, though. I said that I wouldn’t leave you out anymore. And I could tell you that it’s difficult for me to slow my brain down once I get started, or that I tend to tune most things out if I’m focused on a task, but I know that doesn’t undo the fact that I hurt you.

And you may not believe me, but I do need you, however much my actions might lead you to believe otherwise at times. I would never want to intentionally cause you harm, physically or…emotionally. I’m sorry, John.”

John could see the worry in his eyes and the way he was fidgeting with his hands behind his back.

“It’s okay,” John said slowly. “I need you too, you git,” he added, his mouth forming a smile. “I need you…us, to be safe.”

Sherlock glanced up at him and quirked a small smile as well. “Well, I can’t always guarantee our safety, but I will make an effort to be more careful, if only to avoid having to deal with how grumpy you are when faced with hospital food.”

John couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips. “It’s dreadful,” he said.

Sherlock seemed as if he were trying to contain his excitement. “I’ll make tea,” he announced, rushing over to the kitchen.

“You don’t have to keep…doing things for me, y’know.”

“I think I’ve taken a liking to it, actually. Keeps me busy,” he said. “Earl Grey or English Breakfast?”

John put his head in his hand and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always welcome :)


	11. Tremor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tremor in John's hand has returned as of late and it's beginning to wear on him.

John stared down at his hands as they hovered over the keyboard of his laptop. He spread his fingers, observing the way skin stretched over bone. The fingers of his left hand trembled slightly as he held them up, and he frowned minutely before clenching his hand into a tight fist.

John looked up to the ever-blinking cursor on his computer screen, feeling almost as if it were taunting him. He had been attempting to type up his and Sherlock’s latest case for almost an hour, but the return of the tremor in his hand had been impeding the process the whole way.

The sun was going down outside the windows of the flat, but John was determined to finish the blog entry, even if it took him all night.

_You wouldn’t believe what Sherlock found in the client’s home. The entire time, the jwels hda ben_

John stopped. He closed his eyes and sighed, letting the tremor run its course through his hand. The shaking would always start around his thumb, causing it to almost vibrate back and forth, and the wave of movement would travel through the rest of his fingers and seize control of his hand.

When the shaking seemed to have dissipated, John steeled himself and went back to typing. It only took a few more sentences, however, before the tremor crept up on him yet again and caused his fingers to smash clumsily onto the keyboard.

“Damn it,” John swore under his breath. He was seconds away from abandoning the blog post altogether when he heard familiar footfalls on the stairs.

“John!” Sherlock shouted as he made his way up to the flat. “You should have seen the severed feet that Molly had for me. Perfect for my experiment. Only a small explosion this time; no harm done, aside from— Oh.” Sherlock stopped short when he entered the sitting room. “You’re upset,” he said.

John shook his head, not looking at Sherlock. “No, I’m not. I’m just…”

“Upset?”

“I’m not.”

“Right.” Sherlock took off his scarf and coat, hanging the two up on the back of the door. He walked slowly over to where John was sitting at the desk by the window and leaned over his shoulder.

“I’m writing up the blog,” John said.

“You’ve misspelled ‘jewels.’” Sherlock pointed to the screen.

“Yes, I know.”

“Your tremor is acting up again.”

“Yes, I know.” John sighed.

Sherlock moved back slightly, clasping his hands behind his back.

“It might be better to leave it for now,” he said. “You haven’t eaten dinner, which is grossly out of character for you, and frankly a little concerning.”

“I want to finish this.”

“John.”

“Sherlock, there’s nothing I can do about my hand, so just let me write the stupid blog,” John snapped.

“I could help.”

John scoffed. “Yeah, I don’t think so, not after the last time you took over my blog and wrote about nothing but mud samples.”

“I meant I could help with your hand, not your romantic drivel,” Sherlock said.

“You like my romantic drivel.”

“That’s entirely beside the point.” Sherlock reached out and slowly closed John’s laptop. “Come on,” he said, holding his hands out for John to take.

John stared at Sherlock’s outstretched hands for a moment before silently conceding, because if he was being honest with himself, continuing his attempt to type was likely only going to frustrate him further.

Sherlock took John’s smaller hands in his and led him to the sofa where he sat him down gently.

“What are you going to do?” John asked.

“You’ll see. Just sit.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock said as he hurried off toward their bedroom.

John looked back down at his hands after Sherlock left the room. His left hand was staying still in his lap, his fingers curled inward. He knew that if he kept his hand in this position, it wouldn’t shake, but if he were to uncurl his fingers, the trembling would start almost immediately. He thought that maybe it’d somehow be easier to learn how to use his right hand for everything rather than struggle to control his left one.

Sherlock’s return to the sitting room snapped John out of his wandering thoughts, and he watched as Sherlock set down a small bottle of lotion and a flannel onto the coffee table. He had taken his suit jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

Sherlock sat down in a cross-legged position in the middle of the sofa and motioned for John to do the same.

“Sit like this, facing me,” he said.

John, still a little unsure of what was going on, complied and brought his legs up to mirror Sherlock’s position.

Without saying a word, Sherlock folded the flannel and placed it atop John’s thigh before reaching for the lotion.

“Sorry, what are we doing?” John asked.

“I’m giving you a hand massage, obviously,” Sherlock said.

“Oh. That…actually sounds lovely,” John said, some of the tension leaving his voice.

“Of course it does; I always know what to do.” Sherlock smirked.

“Git,” John teased. 

“Put your hand on the towel, palm down,” Sherlock said as he opened up the lotion.

John did as he was told, taking a deep, shaky breath.

“It’s all right, John. You can relax.”

“I know,” John snapped instinctively. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Just breathe. You’ll be all right,” Sherlock said soothingly. He really did always know what to do, John thought.

John closed his eyes for a moment and breathed, trying not to dwell on the stress that had been building in his chest all night.

The first touch of Sherlock’s hands to his caused him to let out a short gasp. Sherlock’s hands were warm and enveloping. The lotion smelled faintly of bergamot and made for a smooth glide as Sherlock moved his fingers along the back of John’s hand.

Sherlock weaved the tips of his fingers in between John’s knuckles, along the tops of his fingers, and over the sides of his hand. John focused on the physical weight of Sherlock’s hands on his own, letting it distract him from the thoughts buzzing frantically around in his head.

“How does that feel?” Sherlock asked.

“Good,” John said, his voice calm and quiet.

“I’m no expert in this, you know,” Sherlock admitted.

“Is this one of those things you learned on the internet?”

“Perhaps.”

John chuckled. Sherlock turned his hand over so that his palm was facing upwards and pressed both of his thumbs into the center of John’s palm, massaging slowly and gently. He then moved on to John’s fingers, where he rubbed small circles on them from top to bottom.

When Sherlock moved on to John’s thumb, John’s hand began to shake, causing it to jerk out of Sherlock’s grip.

“Shit, sorry,” John cursed, pulling his hand away.

“No need to apologize,” Sherlock said. He gently took John’s hand and placed it back on the towel, picking up where he left off.

“I hate it,” John admitted quietly, almost to himself.

“It’s something that’s out of your control, John.”

“I know, that’s why I hate it.”

Sherlock continued his ministrations, massaging the sides of John’s palm, being careful not to press too firmly.

“It reminds me that I need help, sometimes,” John went on. “That I can’t always do everything on my own.”

“You don’t have to.”

John smiled sadly. “I know that now, but it’s still not easy.”

“No one ever said it was, but you have me. And I always know what to do, remember?”

“You do, don’t you?” John used his free hand to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck and bring him in for a kiss. “Thank you,” he said.

“Anytime, John.” Sherlock smiled. “And I could finish typing up your blog for you, as well; your readers don’t know nearly enough about mud identification.”

John laughed wholeheartedly and gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek. “Very funny, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you so much for reading, and feedback is always welcome! ^^


End file.
